SHIN KIDOU SENKI GUNDAM WING

SAINAN NO KEKKA
ACT II, PART II

 
 
Scene V: All That He Seems to be and More

 
Mornings were not his thing. Despite what many people may have believed, Quatre was not a cheerful person until he had a few ounces of caffeine running through his veins. His sister Jaffa had once tried to give him decaffeinated tea in place of his regular ultra-caffeinated brand without informing him. By noon, he had thrown two temper tantrums over relatively minor matters, a maid had quit, and Jaffa was forcing two cups of Darjeeling down his throat.

Six AM, and his manservant Kasserine threw his curtains back, letting the false light of the dawn of the Colony into Quatre's room. The blonde teenager mumbled a derogatory comment about Kasserine's probable ancestry and rolled over, pulling his pillow over his head.

Used to the antics of his employer, Kasserine jerked the blankets off the boy. Quatre made a hurried grab, but his manservant deftly avoided him. "You're fired! Lemme alone!" Quatre snapped irritably.

With a sigh, Kasserine ignored the order and shoved a cup of Earl Grey into Quatre's hands. Ten minutes later, Quatre gave him smile that was wonderful in its sweetness. "Why do you put up with me?" he asked.

Kasserine stifled a smirk. "You pay well, sir," he said. "Would you like the rest of your breakfast now?"

Quatre nodded, running a hand through his mussed hair. "Please. And since I'm sure Bartlett is waiting outside, send him in.

Kasserine nodded, left to carry out his orders, and was replaced almost immediately by Bartlett, who was holding his daily planner. "Morning Bartlett," Quatre said, sipping on his second cup of tea. "What's on for today?"

Bartlett didn't look up from the notebook, and Quatre barely kept from sighing out loud. Over a year, and still the man was like an iceberg. His aide was suppose to be his most valued employee, yet how could they work together if Bartlett refused to trust him? Quatre was seriously concerned that he might have to fire the man. "We have a busy day," Bartlett began, reading over the planner. "Meetings until noon, lunch with a few of your suppliers, a tour of the new college you helped finance, two more quick meetings, then you'll be attending a concert with Ms. Indira Hussein. Remember to be extremely apolitical. Her family hasn't forgotten the twentieth century."

Quatre hated arranged dates, but it was part and parcel of his position. Rolling out of bed, he set his feet on the floor, his toes sinking into the inch-thick plush blue carpet. Darting for the closet, he disappeared into the vast depths of the wardrobe, looking around for an outfit for the day. He settled on gray slacks, a pink silk shirt, and a matching gray vest. Slipping out of his pajamas, he wrapped a satin dressing robe around his slender body.

He picked up the ensemble he had selected, and started out of the closet to the bathroom. "Is that all, then?" he asked somewhat dryly.

Bartlett flipped a page. "There is a breaking news story you should be aware of in case someone wants you to comment on it. It seems a reporter managed to get a hold of some documents about the Gundam Pilots."

Quatre turned into a statue. "What did they say?" he asked quietly.

Bartlett misinterpreted Quatre's stillness as terror at the very mention of the word "Gundam". He scowled slightly. "The pilots were young- the oldest was sixteen when the war ended. The papers claim they are holding the names, but it's very feasible that the records will be made public under Act 60 of the World Congress."

"What will happen when the public gets a hold of the names?" Quatre wondered allowed, but Bartlett took it as a direct question.

The man levelled a gaze on his employer that spoke volumes for how much he thought of Quatre's intelligence. "Riots, public outcry, the usual. Hopefully the governments of the world have stabilized enough to maintain peace, but if not..." The older man shrugged. "We have the contingency plans prepared already, Mr. Winner. The Winner Group will weather this as it always has. We are an eternal force of nature."

Quatre nodded and headed to the bathroom to dress. He washed his face slowly, looking back at the angelic countenance that was reflected. Limpid blue eyes stared at him, and Quatre looked at the golden hair that framed his cupid-like face, the sweet mouth and pale skin. Some of his sisters liked to tease him about being a cuckoo in the nest, for who had ever heard of an Arabian who looked like he did? Quatre used to try to argue that five of his other sisters who had the same fair coloring, but Jaffa would retaliate by saying they had a Middle-Eastern cast to their bone structure, while he looked as European as possible. Still, he wished that he looked older. It wasn't fair that he had lived through the war and still didn't look like he needed to shave.

After ten minutes or so, he emerged from the bathroom, freshly washed. Bartlett had taken his leave, but one of Quatre's sisters had taken his place.

Aisha was the sister he saw the most of. She was the very epitome of Arabic, having the dark complexion and black hair and eyes that he lacked, along with the elegantly chiseled features that marked her Middle Eastern heritage. "Hello, Quatre," she said affectionately. "Bartlett is going to be handling some of your lower-powered meetings today, so I'll fill in for him," she said.

He smiled back at her. "Glad to have you," he said. "Does Kasserine have breakfast ready?"

"I'm afraid you'll have to eat in the car. I grabbed what Kasserine had finished, and packed some nutritional bars that should do," she said apologetically. "There's a lot of work to be done, and we're bracing for the crisis."

He looked at his slender sister, who gracefully leaned forward and straightened his vest. Stepping back, she gave him a once over before pronouncing him suitable. Together they hurried downstairs, Aisha falling automatically behind him, modestly keeping her eyes down. Quatre wondered why she was being so quiet - usually she would at least twit him about being so informally dressed.

"Aisha, is something going on?"

"There's always something going on,"she replied primly.

His eyes narrowed. "Sheherezade?" he asked suspiciously. Sheherezade was Aisha's twin sister and a notorious prankster.

His sister laughed. "I assure you, I'm Aisha. The thing is, we have a guest."

Quatre's eyes narrowed. "Who is it?"

"Jaffa," Aisha answered quietly.

"Jaffa? Here?" he squeaked. Quatre hadn't seen her in three months- the last he knew, she was moderating yet another of the quarrels between his older sisters. One of them was a parasite who fed off of the family fortune, and often ended up fighting with the others about her lifestyle. Jaffa was constantly soothing the ruffled feathers.

"Yes, here," Aisha replied, a wicked glint in her eye. "She's going to ride with us to work so she can talk to you. She says its about something important."

"I can imagine," Quatre said, his mind flickering to the news Bartlett had just told him about.

"Well, we had better get going. Your first meeting is in half an hour."

Great, Quatre thought. Just great.

The two siblings walked out to the elegant blank limo. Quatre had toyed with the idea of getting a pink one in memory of a certain Queen, but decided he didn't like pink that much. Sliding inside, Quatre sat opposite both his sisters.

He'd expected at least a hug and a smile from Jaffa, but today her face looked oddly stern and drawn behind the veils, and her sherry brown eyes lacked their usual glint of good humor as she clicked the privacy button on. "Hello, Quatre. You've heard the news, I assume?" she asked, her usually cheerful soprano muted with a serious concern he had never heard before.

"Yes," Quatre confessed, darting a glance at Aisha. As far as he knew, Aisha had no idea what her little brother had done during the war.

"You're going to have to tell her anyway," Jaffa said. "The entire family is going to find out, along with the rest of the world."

Aisha looked more puzzled. "Find out what?"

"How many know already?" he wanted to know, ignoring her.

"During the war, six of them found out. Since Iria died, it's been five, but I've informed Yaminah since we're going to need her services."

"Yaminah?" Quatre asked, trying to place the name to the sister. He had an impossible time keeping them straight.

"She's the lawyer."

"Have I met her?"

"No - she works in London and rarely sees any of the family. Still, she's taking the first shuttle here."

"Would one of you please explain exactly what's going on?" Aisha demanded, crossing her hands over her breasts angrily.

Quatre swallowed. "It's about what I did during the war."

Aisha went very still suddenly. "What?" she wanted to know, having a slight premonition of impending doom.

He took a deep breath. "Aisha, I was a Gundam pilot."

Aisha stared at him, and he stared back at her, willing her to understand. "Um..." she said hesitantly, her voice quavering a bit. "This - this is a joke, right? Quatre, your sense of humor needs work!" She began to laugh. "Imagine what would happen if someone actually BELIEVED that?! Do you know how long it would take for the public relationships to mend the damage that joke would cause?"

"No," Jaffa said. "He's telling the truth." She placed a supportive hand on her brother's shoulder.

Aisha looked at both of their solemn faces, her laughter dying and her eyes filling with tears. "Quatre, how could you?" she demanded. "That's against everything our family stands for! How COULD you!?"

"It gets better," Quatre said, continuing his confession. His uchuu no kokoro throbbed at the tears rolling down his sister's face, but the words poured out of him. "I was also the one who built Gundam Wing Zero. You know, the Gundam that destroyed the colonies."

"You - you-" Aisha's voice rose to a fevered pitch as she grabbed Quatre's shoulder, and then her eyes rolled back into her head. She collapsed over the seat, narrowly missing Quatre's plate as she fell.

"Aisha!" Quatre cried, making a grab for her, but Jaffa smoothly reached out her arms to catch her and prop her against the leather seat back.

"She'll get over it. Be good and eat your breakfast- you're going to need all the energy you can get."

Quatre obediently picked up a slice of his cooling toast, chewing on it somewhat resentfully. "So we have a lawyer coming, and we're going to tell the rest of the family. Great."

"I also took the liberty of contacting Rashid - he's going to be bringing his soldiers up to be your bodyguards."

"Bodyguards?"

"Quatre, you know as well as I do that people are very, very upset. There's going to be assassination attempts on your life."

Quatre blinked. "I never thought about it."

She sighed. "No, of course you wouldn't. You always think about an ideal, or in other abstract concepts. I've arranged a press conference for three days from now."

"Press conference?" Quatre parroted.

"It'll be better if we release the news ourselves, rather then have it spread. That way, we can put the proper spin control on it. I've contacted Briggs and Tenno- they're the best speech writers in the business."

Quatre felt like he had just been hit by a high-speed shuttle. "Is there anything you didn't think of?"

"Most likely. But I'm your older sister, I'm suppose to boss you around."

He smiled and took a sip of orange juice. "I love you," he said.

"I know you do," she said affectionately. "You're not the only one with empathic abilities." She leaned over Aisha, checking to make sure the other girl was breathing, and then nodded. "She'll be all right once she comes around."

Glancing over at Aisha, he wondered. If his own sister had reacted this badly, what would the rest of the world do?

 
Go to Reeshya story The Little Princess

 
Scene VI: The Price of Fame and Nobility

 
"I hide nothing," she intoned calmly for the fifth time. Camera bulbs flashed in her face and she resisted the urge to spin around and bolt back into the safety of one of the many myriad hidden rooms of the palace. "I was not aware of the need to reveal the identities of the pilots to the public."

"Isn't that hiding, Queen Relena?"

"I call it protecting, rather."

"You wish to protect murderers?"

"They are not murderers," Relena flared, regretting that show of temper immediately after she had spoken. The cameras clicked and flashbulbs sparked. "They are my friends!"

"You claim to be a pacifist, yet you befriend soldiers?"

"These soldiers fought for the greater good."

"Yet they fought!"

Microphones shoved up in her face.

"Queen Relena, what-"

"Queen Relena, please-"

"Queen Relena, why-"

She opened her mouth to tell them all to go to hell, and a shadow stepped smoothly in front of her, blocking her from public view.

"I believe Queen Relena is tired," intoned her security chief. "She needs to rest. Thank you for coming."

The clamor from the crowd of reporters rose as he backed away from the blocked off entrance-way to the Cinq palace, sweeping her along with them. When enough shrubbery and latticework hid them from sight, he stopped, turning around to look at her.

"I apologize for dragging you off, my lady, but you did look tired."

She managed a ragged smile, pushing a lock of hair back behind her ear. "No. Thank you. You did the right thing. A second longer there, and I would have..."

His smile showed he understood. From what Milliard had told her, this particular guard had served under the Peacecrafts when her father was king. He was a big man with salt-and pepper hair and beard and gentle eyes. He could be counted on.

"It's been a long day, Jarod."

"That it has, my lady. Perhaps you would like to be escorted back to your rooms to rest?"

That sounded nice. To rest. "No...I can't. There's work to be taken care of."

"You've done enough work today, my lady."

Relena rested her head against the stone pillar at the edge of the drive. "There's press reports to read...paperwork. I need to contact lawyers in case anything does happen. I need to prepare a statement to the country...Secretary Warner and I think it's a good idea if I have a public appearance to clear everything up as much it can be cleared up..."

"Relena."

She looked up at him. He had only called her by her given name a few times before, but he had known her since she was a child, and she trusted him.

"I'm sorry, Jarod. I can't sleep yet."

His eyes showed that he was worried about her, but instead he nodded. "Shall I accompany you back to your office, then?"

"That would be nice. Thank you."

The stars were bright tonight and it was almost a shame when they stepped into the side door that led directly to the offices inside the east wing of the palace. The hallways were quiet and most of the doors were locked, personnel having gone home rather than stay up late dealing with the paperwork that had piled up on their desks within a day after the news broke.

The media had no mercy.

Relena had been eating breakfast when she had heard. She had planned for a fairly relaxing day, with only two meetings: one with the Secretary of Commerce and the other with some committee chairman for the Renovation of Public Lands. When the servant appeared at the door with that familiar look on his face, the please-Queen-Relena-could-you-change-your-schedule look, she'd felt slightly downcast at the hopes of her one free day in months going down the drain.

A lot more was about to go down the drain, as she found out when she saw the gathering of news vans pulled up in front of the palace gates. Her chief of security was waiting for her at the door.

Jarod? She'd snapped. What's going on?

He had broken the news to her as gently as possible and she had felt the old resignation bubble up from where she had stored it, hoping never to have to use it again. The resignation that things were never going to go the way she wanted them to, and she should just learn to deal with it. Milliard had told her that his first night back.

Stop trying to change the world, Relena. It won't happen. You'll just have to deal with the fact that what you want might not be the way things are going to be.

Relena had never been the type of person to "just deal" with anything. But when Jarod had uttered the words "Gundam" and "pilot," she had felt strangely blank, as if it had nothing to do with her. As if she had never been involved, had been just a spectator sitting on the sidelines watching as the bloody drama unfolded. Because she had never really been involved, after all. She'd pushed her way in, hoping to make a difference - and she'd been used. Cruelly used and then thrown aside. By the Federation, by Romefeller, even by Treize Khushrenada, though he had been a pawn in the end himself. He would understand what she was up against.

We need you, Treize, she had thought fiercely at the sky. We need you, and you had to go and die.

She'd watched from the window of her office as the reporters gathered. She pretended to do paperwork, glancing at the clock every two minutes, wondering why the second hand crawled so slowly by the silver numbers on the face. After reading and rereading the same paragraph on foreign affairs for half an hour, she stood, slammed the stack of papers down on the desk, and drew the curtain over the window.

Jarod had appeared at the door, alarmed.

My lady? What's wrong?

I'm going down to face them.

Now, as she sat in the same chair and stared at the even higher stack of papers on her desk, she wondered if that had been such a good idea. She had raised more questions than answers, and the results of that hurried interview were sure to be in the news tomorrow, twisted out of context and interspersed with the news anchors' snide remarks. That was how it always was. She couldn't even make a simple interview sound how she wanted it to, in the end.

She'd spoken from the heart. Always. And it hurt.

"Relena? You sure you'll be all right?"

She smiled at Jarod's worried face, waving him away. "I'm fine. I'll go lie down in a little bit, after I finished writing a preliminary speech."

"You really should hire a speech writer," he said, hand hovering around the doorknob. "It would be-"

"A lot easier?" Relena said softly, smiling at him. Her cheeks hurt. "Yes it would be. But then they wouldn't be my words. Would they?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I see."

No he didn't, but it was all right. "Goodnight, Jarod."

He bowed and the door closed behind him with a click. She sighed. After a moment, she got up, kicking off her shoes as she did so, letting her sore feet pad soundlessly on the carpet. Walking to the window, she slowly drew back the curtains, watching the stars and the moon in the sky.

Most of the vans had gone now, and the few that remained were starting their engines, crew packing away camera equipment. Ironic, that a queen couldn't even keep reporter crews out of her own front yard.

No, she wasn't a queen. More like a prime minister, a president. A queen had more power than she was wielding right now, and she knew that some of her ministers thought she was overstepping her bounds.

Relena Peacecraft may be the rightful heir to the throne, but she's different. An outsider. Not one of us.

She supposed she would have to just deal with it, as she had with everything else. It hurt.

Sighing, Relena pushed back the papers covering most of the desk, biting back a yelp as she sliced the skin of one finger on a corner of a document. Putting the finger in her mouth, she cleared enough space to work, then retrieved an ink pen and a spare sheet of paper.

 
My people:

 
No, that wouldn't work. She would be being too presumptuous. Scratching that out, she started over.

 
My fellow citizens:

 
That wouldn't work either. She wasn't really a citizen of the Cinq Kingdom, in their eyes. She hadn't been there when they'd needed her. Never mind that she had been a child with no recollection of her past, and that her older brother, the traitor-turned-rebel, was the true heir. Sighing, she scribbled it out.

 
Citizens of the Cinq Kingdom:

 
Hmm. What next? A simple explanation. She was too tired to add in the flowery greetings and pleasantries. She could do that later, if she wanted. She doubted she would.

 
The news of the identities of the Gundam Pilots has been a matter of great concern to us and a matter of great concern to this state as well. In this address, we wish to state our position on this matter.

We-

 
We what?

What was her position on the Gundam pilots?

Relena chewed on the end of the pen, propping her head up with one hand. They were expecting her to support the decision of the world government. That was definitely what they would want: all her ministers. A strong kingdom must have a strong queen, and a strong queen follows the just rule of law. Wasn't that what she had been taught?

So exactly what was the just rule of law?

Steepling her fingers in front of her, Relena closed her eyes, sorting through memory after memory. The war had been about power, in the end. Power in the name of peace. That was all it was, and some part of her had known that even through the struggle to create a real world government in the name of peace. She had known, as with everything, that nothing she did would matter. That she would eventually be cast aside as just another pawn, and she would have to learn to deal.

Milliard, this is all your fault.

It was his fault. If he hadn't been so selfish, hadn't decided to walk away from his responsibility without a care in the world and left her with the throne, it would all be all right. At least he could have stayed when he had decided to come back out of wherever he had been hiding himself. At least he could have offered to help her. Instead, he'd sat around offering cryptic remarks and showing no sympathy whatsoever towards her troubles.

She'd wanted a brother, and he had acted the part of stern parent. She'd wanted a brother, and he had acted the part of overbearing advisor. Never simply there for her, like a true brother would be. Milliard Peacecraft obviously didn't understand.

Some brother.

Relena clenched her fists, feeling like a five-year-old throwing a temper tantrum, but she didn't care. She was still a child, in Milliard's eyes, and would always be a child. It wasn't her fault that she had none of his charisma, his presence, his ability to plan and charm into submission. She wasn't her brother, and Milliard couldn't accept that.

Heero had the same qualities that Milliard had, except he was different. He was...

Pure?

As absurd as that was, that was how she thought of him.

They were all pure.

She reached for her pen, began scribbling lines down on the page of paper, knowing that what she wrote was far from politically correct, even farther from the policies which she had hoped to instill in the country as queen, but that really wasn't a choice any longer. She had to be selfish sometimes.

This matter was something which she couldn't just let slide. Even if it didn't matter in the end, she would act. She refused to sit by and deal with it any longer.

 
We believe in peace, yet we-

 
No.

Starting from the beginning of the document, Relena began scratching out all references to the royal "we." This was not about the kingdom, but her and her alone. There was no "we" in this.

 
I believe in peace, yet I believe that in order to sustain that peace, one must also sometimes deviate from absolute pacifism. This matter of the Gundam pilots threatens the peace which we have so carefully built, for which Treize Khushrenada sacrificed himself, and therefore I must stand behind the pilots. The pilots fought for our peace. They gave us the courage and the ability to build this new world in which we live. In order to preserve their dreams, what they have fought for, I also must stand up and fight. Not with weapons, but with words and with action. I believe that we should give back to the pilots what they gave to us, and that includes support in their darkest hour.

 
She read the words over, seeing them as if through a distant, dim tunnel. She was digging her own grave, yet she could not lie.

Milliard, we're different, you and I.

 
I do not plead with you to stand with me. I know that this time will be one of trial for all citizens, and I will not exempt myself from that trial. The Gundam pilots taught us strength and honor, and for that strength and honor, I will stand up for what I believe is the truth.

 
The truth.

What was the truth?

In the darkness of the room she could almost see a pair of Prussian-blue eyes gazing cold and hard into hers, a hand reaching out, the feel of cold metal against her skin.

Omae o korosu.

They had left her. They had all left her alone, and yet she was defending them.

 
I urge every citizen to support the side which they believe stands in the right. In every crucible and conflagration, those who emerge will emerge stronger and wiser. So I hope it is with this conflict. And in the end, I hope that none of us will hold regrets for what we have done.

 
The room suddenly felt very cold, and the twinkling stars offered no comfort.

"Milliard," she said quietly to the shadows. "You're a coward."

 
Go to Lo! How a Rose e'er Blooming

 
Scene VII: To Begin a Battle

 
The colonel was in command.

Technically that wasn't true. Une was now a general; she hadn't been a colonel since the end of the Eve Wars. Still, that was how Sally thought of Une when she was like this. Even though Une had integrated both aspects of her personality, sometime one side would become more dominant.

It was fascinating to watch. Sally, though no psychologist, recognized a classic case of a dissociation disorder when she saw one. Aside from the slight breakdown Une had first had when they surveyed her office, the Lady had managed to maintain control of the situation.

The world was going nuts. Already the Preventers had been forced to dispatch four teams as riot control, and fires had been reported in thirteen major cities and two colonies. The press was pounding on their doors, heckling any employees who tried to enter. Two secretaries had quit in tears, and one of their operatives had grabbed a photographer and destroyed his camera.

Sally knocked cautiously on the door, ready to get her head bitten off. People had been treading carefully around Une, with good reason. Une was never a calm personality, but in times of crisis, heads rolled if things weren't done as well as she could have. And as Une was a perfectionist, people were naturally frightened. Sally wasn't afraid of her, but she understandably didn't look forward to getting chopped off at the knees. The press had fallen onto the story like rabid wolves, and the Preventers were left picking up the mess.

"Enter!" Une called.

She was sitting behind the desk, her hair still messed from the storm she had gotten caught in. She had taken the time to put on a clean uniform, and Sally saw that the old one had been thrown onto the chair that was in the right hand corner of the office. Obviously the maid hadn't found the courage to enter. All things considered, it was probably a wise thing. Sally made a mental note to give her a raise- that was assuming that the Preventers were still around in a month. This whole mess could destroy them.

"We got Banks. He was sitting at home, waiting for us. Came without a fight," Sally reported without preamble.

Une's eyes flashed in satisfaction. "The press get it?"

"The press always 'gets it.' Right now our cover is that we've taken him in for questioning about how he obtained the documents."

Une snorted. "Bury him in paperwork."

"Taken care of. I have a gag order on the World Free Press, but Lord knows how long it will be until they manage to get a court to overturn it for long enough to publish the story- I give it about ten days."

"Ten days to brace for the hurricane. How lovely," Une said sardonically.

"I know," Sally said, a grim expression on her face. "What the hell can we do?"

"I haven't the slightest idea. If I did, believe me, we wouldn't be messing with this." Une rested her face in her hands, rubbing at her temples as though she had a headache.

The vidscreen blinked, signaling an incoming call. Une sighed and entered the passcode that would allow the call through. "Yes?"

Sally came around the other side of Une's desk, curious in spite of herself. On the screen was a man in a stained Preventers uniform, wearing the insignia of a first lieutenant. His brown eyes had tight stress lines around them, and Sally wondered what the smoke she could see rising behind the lieutenant was coming from.

The man saluted. "Lieutenant Drake, reporting, ma'am," he announced.

Une stared him down for a second. "Dispense with the formalities, Lieutenant. What the fuck is so goddamn urgent that you have to interrupt me?" Sally barely kept from wincing at her language.

"I was calling to report a riot in Moscow, ma'am," he said.

"We have a riot in Moscow now?" she demanded, wanting to know exactly where the hell the world was going to. "Great!"

"Hardly, ma'am. I have all of our security forces out to quell the crowds- we're used tear gas twice already, and it just seems to be making them more angry."

"Spare me from imbeciles! Of course it's making them more angry! The population just found out the Preventers knew who the Gundam Pilots were, and when they protest, they get bombarded with tear gas! You stupid, stupid man! Get our people who are there to form a barricade by the government buildings, but otherwise let the people do what they want as long as they aren't hurting each other. They have a right to demonstrate."

"But they're burning cars!" the lieutenant said in protest.

"Cars are replaceable. Lives aren't," Une said shortly. "Hasn't anyone up there got the sense to call Laptev Station to send down reinforcements?" The lieutenant looked blank. Une sighed explosively. "Be patient - I'll contact Laptev to send out a colonel with some more police to take care of the situation shortly. Until then, do not under any circumstances do anything rash. General Une out." She cut the connection with a slap. "Sally, remind me to demote that idiot as soon as possible."

"Duly noted," Sally said dryly.

Une rubbed her temples, then reached into her desk, pulling out a pain medication. Taking two tablets, she swallowed without water. "Damn migraine," she griped. "I hate this. Treize never had migraines."

Great, Sally thought. As if she wasn't bad enough already, now she had a headache. She's going to be worse then a lion with a thorn in its paw. "General..."

Une looked up. "I've been getting calls like that all day. So far thirty people have died. We've lost five agents, and I've had over a hundred resignations delivered to my desk. Then I have idiots like that- how the hell did he make lieutenant?" she griped. "You think there would be a requirement for a brain, wouldn't you? Apparently not."

Sally blushed slightly. She was in charge of personnel, and Une's complaint was a valid one. "Sorry,"she said uselessly.

"Doesn't matter right now. That's the least of my concerns. What I need is to make sure that the riots don't spread. If I have to, I'll resign as Head of Preventers - the problem is, who would take my place? You? You're in just as deep as I am, if not more so. You were the ally of the pilots during the war."

Sally shrugged. "I make no apology for that fact."

"Nor should you. Then there's Noin and Zechs- Noin may be dead right now for all we know, and Zechs - Milliard - well, he doesn't want it. Too bad, really, because he'd probably handle this better then anyone else could."

Une sank back into her seat. "I just had papers filed against me," she said. "The families of some of the soldiers who were killed at Lake Victoria have banded together and are pressing suit. I expect there will be many, many more. I might have to hire additional lawyers."

"In war, people die. Ignore that for now," Sally advised quietly. "What we need to concentrate on is Banks. He caused this, and we have to react. Part of the mission statement for the Preventers is to promote peace. Banks is hardly doing that. He broke his oath as a Preventer, so we can have a military trial. A court martial, at the very least."

Une snorted. "His loyalties were never with us to start with."

"No, but it's the excuse we can use to make sure we can keep him in our custody."

Une nodded. "Would you do me a tremendous favor?" she asked in a sweet voice.

Sally slanted her a wary look. Une rarely asked for anything; usually she outright demanded. If she was asking, it meant trouble. "What is it?" she wanted to know.

"Someone needs to question Banks; someone high in the organization. I don't trust myself to do it- if I had my way, I'd shoot the bastard. You're a little more patient then I ever am."

Sally nodded, conceding the point. "You're not the only one who'd prefer to see a rotting corpse," she muttered under her breath.

Une looked at her. "I want to know if he had any accomplices. I want to know how he did it. And most of all, I want to know why he did it."

"Don't we all," Sally agreed. "Sure. I'll go interview Banks."

 
Scene VIII: Name, Rank, Serial Number, and Date of Birth

 
She glared silently, defiantly, at the man who stood before her. Her arms tingled and she could feel the sensation leaving them as the handcuffs chafed at her wrists. Not that it mattered.

Noin wondered how long it would take until he figured out she wouldn't talk.

The room was a large one, almost throne-room like, with enormous glass windows placed at strategic intervals through which sunlight streamed. The room was bare of furniture. She guessed that in peacetime, it had been used as a ballroom of some sort, but the feel of it now was far from the festive atmosphere of a ballroom. Though that had much to do with the officer who was standing amid the shafts of sun, mocking her predicament.

"You're a stubborn one," he said at last, looking at her thoughtfully as he paced around her in a circle. Circle after circle. It was enough to drive a woman crazy. And the thoughtfulness in his eyes was not friendly. "What will it take to make you tell me what I want to know?"

"My name is Major Lucrezia Noin. Serial number 15822147. Date of birth January 25, 176."

"You know, that name sounds familiar." The look of thoughtfulness in his eyes was real now, as he cocked his head to the side to ponder. "Oh...I know who you are. The OZ Lieutenant Noin, am I right? Thought I recognized your face. You were always in the news, before the war. Merquise's sidekick, am I correct?"

She said nothing, but he smiled and continued to circle, like a vulture descending on its prey from spirals in the sky. He had on lieutenant colonel ranks and wore his saber with all the condescending air of an officer who was more than sure of his abilities, one of those officers who could break all the rules and get away with it and still be worshipped. She resisted the urge to spit in the smirking face under the styled golden hair. He was tall and handsome and confident, and he knew it.

That was the problem, wasn't it? He was confident in his ability to break her, and she was not so confident she would not be broken.

She wouldn't have, once. But that was a long time ago...when...

He reminded her of-

"You'll talk, Lieutenant Noin. You'll talk soon enough. Why don't you just save me the trouble of...less healthy methods and just tell me what your government wants?"

"My name is Major Lucrezia Noin," she said through gritted teeth. "Serial number 15822147. Date of birth January 25, 176."

There was a silence as he frowned at her, and then he began to laugh. The peals of laughter rolled through the high-ceilinged room, and for a moment, she blinked, confused. He smiled at her, still laughing.

"They trained you better than I thought," he said at last. "I suppose I underestimated those OZ bastards. You won't say anything else to me unless I do decide to apply the rules, so I should stop trying, is that right?"

It was all she could do to stop herself from hurling obscenities at him. And from the look on his face, he knew it.

"You may break easier than I thought," he said. Stopping his pacing for a minute, he scratched the side of his nose, fingering the hilt of his dress saber with the other hand. "I'm sorry. I never introduced myself, did I? My name is Lieutenant Colonel Davi Morgan, and I am the commander of the 5th infantry battalion for the liberation of the colony." He stopped, and she stared stonily at him. There was sunshine coming through the skylight above his head.

"A grand title, isn't it? A grand ideal."

"My name is Major Lucrezia Noin. Serial number-"

He waved irritably at her. "I know, I know. Serial number 15822147, etcetera. What every good soldier learns as soon as they enter the forces. Save me the trouble, major."

"You won't get away with this," she said, holding her chin up high. The handcuffs squeezed her wrists.

He raised an eyebrow. "Oh? The captive does speak after all."

"I'm not helpless," she spat. "I can defend myself, and you will regret this."

"I'm sure," he said lazily, drawing his saber with a silvery metallic ring and tracing invisible circles in the air with it. His polished black boots clicked on the floor as he began to circle once more, and she stiffened as he twirled the saber around with one hand and pointed it at her throat. Circling. Around and around.

"You're not bad looking at all," he murmured softly. "In fact, you'd actually be quite pretty if you weren't so sour looking. What's a lovely girl like you doing in the military?"

Her hands trembled.

Abruptly, he sheathed the saber with a flourish. "Enough idle talk. I suppose I've grown tired of your company, charming though it is, so I'll let you retire to your chambers now. Let us continue this conversation later, shall we?"

"Major Lucrezia Noin. Serial number 15822147. Date of birth January 25, 176."

"As I said," he said, raising one eyebrow. "A very pleasant conversation." He snapped his fingers, and another man appeared through the door on the far side, with staff sergeant chevrons on his sleeves, striding across the floor to where Morgan stood. She recognized him. He was the one who had brought her here, the one who guarded her door on the afternoon shift and occasionally came in to check that she was not entertaining any ideas of suicide.

"Take her away," Morgan said dismissively. "I'm through with her for today."

"Yes, sir."

"And Noin?"

She couldn't help but look up at him, towards that deceptively casual tone of voice. His face was hard, and all trace of humor had vanished.

"This is your last chance to talk," he said coldly. "If you do not give me the information my commander seeks, I will be forced to use other methods to gain that information. This colony is no longer under the control of the Terran government, and we may do whatever we want with you. Do you understand?"

She didn't answer.

In a split second the mask was back. Smiling slightly, he bowed to her, a perfect gentleman's bow.

"Good day, Major."

And then the click of his boots in the hallway outside was the only evidence that he had been standing before her at all.

"Come on," the sergeant grunted, taking her roughly by her bound hands and tugging her. "Let's go."

She didn't argue, simply letting him lead her back to the room that was actually a cell, no matter what they called it. Her lunch was waiting in the food tray, and as the lock clicked behind her, she could smell the aroma wafting towards her nose.

The skin on her hands hurt where the handcuffs had bound her, and she rubbed them absently, closing her eyes for a moment and letting the sunshine soak through her skin. It was only them she realized she was shaking.

Zechs, I can't do this. I can't do this.

She had never been a prisoner of war. Fearless commander, ace mobile suit pilot, that was her. But she had never imagined that she would actually ever become a prisoner. The war was over. It wasn't fair.

It wasn't fair at all.

When she was a cadet she had been trained with all the survival skills she would need to survive on her own in the forest, in the jungle, in the desert, adrift in the ocean or in the depths of space. But how did one survive in a prison with all the comforts of home?

Her troops needed her...and she wasn't there for them.

Noin, how could you be so stupid?

Her legs were stiff and jelly all at once and she fell to her knees on the hard floor.

She'd thought she was strong enough, but perhaps she wasn't. There'd been the books, the personal testimonies of the men and women on holovid in the Academy library, men and women who had been prisoners of war and who had testified the horrible truth that they hadn't been as strong as they thought they were when it came down to the bottom line.

What would happen, if she broke?

"Zechs," she whispered, the sound barely a breath of air over the mechanical whir of the air conditioning through the vent. "Zechs...why did you have to die?"

Go to Noin's Commander's Log #1
Go to Noin's Commander's Log #2

 
Act II Part I | Act II Part III | Back to Sainan no Kekka